"And he never shall see them!" announced Mrs. Pedders emphatic.
"H-m-m-m!" says I. "A whole boxful that nobody's opened? But suppose now that some of 'em wa'n't—say, why not take a look at the lot, just the outsides?"
Neither Mrs. Pedders nor Luella took kind to that proposition; but somehow I had a vague hunch it ought to be done. I couldn't say exactly why, either. But I kept urgin' and arguin', and at last they gave in. They'd show me the outsides, anyway; that is, Luella might, if she wanted to. Mrs. Pedders didn't even want to see the box.
"I meant to have burned them long ago," says she. "They're just letters from idle, cruel people, that's all. And you don't know how many such there are in the world, Mr. McCabe. I hope you never will know. But go up with Luella if you wish."
So we did, J. Bayard glancin' suspicious at the dust and cobwebs and protectin' his silk hat and clothes cautiously. It's a good-sized box too, with a staple and padlock to keep the cover down. Luella hunted up the key and handed out bunch after bunch. Why do people want to write to parties they've read about in the newspapers? What's the good too, of jumpin' on bank wreckers and such at long range? Why, some even let their spite slop over on the envelopes. To see such a lot of letters, and think how many hard thoughts they stood for, almost gave you chills on the spine.
Didn't seem to do much good to paw 'em over now, at this late date, either. I was almost givin' up my notion and tellin' Luella that would be about enough, when I noticed a long yellow document envelope stowed away by itself in a corner.
"There's a fat one," says I.
She hands it out mechanical, as she'd done the rest.
"Hello!" says I, glancin' at the corner.
"Gordon & Co., Broad Street, New York! Why, say, that's the Pyramid Gordon I was askin' about."